


Unknowingly

by indigorose50



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Incomplete so far, Lestrade-centric, M/M, Mycroft being a Holmes, Summer Mystrade Exchange
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-13 06:58:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2141457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigorose50/pseuds/indigorose50
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Mycroft helps DI Lestrade solve a case, Lestrade finds himself spending more time with the British government. With no idea what that could mean...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Helping Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rykoe-little-black-book](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=rykoe-little-black-book).



> Written for the Mystrade Gift Exchange 2014. My giftee was rykoe-little-black-book. I had to make this two (or more??) parts because of timing issues but I will have the next part(s) up as soon as I can! Enjoy :)

There was a light knock at Lestrade’s office door. As he was elbow deep in files and evidence, Lestrade was very tempted to yell at them to leave without even looking up. The case he and his team were working on was very involved and very complicated, and Lestrade was trying to resist calling in Sherlock. He told his team they could do this one their own but in reality he didn’t want Sherlock to deduce anything else about his marriage. He and his wife had finally worked themselves out and Lestrade wanted to live in ignorance a little longer.

The knocking at his door increased in volume and the DI raised his head, glare set. To his surprise, the knocker was none other than Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow through the door window and Lestrade waved him inside. “Whatever your brother’s done this time can wait.” He said without preamble as Mycroft closed the door behind him, “I have enough to do at the moment.” He indicated the paper swamp surrounding him.

“I assure you this will take no time at all.” Mycroft held out a thin file, “I merely came by to give you this.”

Lestrade hesitantly reached out and took the offering. “And this is...?”

“Your murderer.”

Lestrade started at him.

“The murderer in your current case.” Mycroft clarified.

“We haven’t released any details,” Lestrade said slowly, “And we haven’t ruled out accidental death.”

Mycroft tapped the file, “Then you’ll want to look through this.” With that, the elder Holmes left, leave behind a confused Lestrade.

\--

Rain is not uncommon in London by any stretch of the imagination. You get used to wet socks, slippery doorways, and deeper-than-they-look puddles. Umbrellas are less a good idea and more a necessity. There is almost no point in listening to the weather: if it was going to be anything close to sunny, you would hear it in excited conversation on the street.

Which is why Greg Lestrade should not have been surprised by the downpour that greeted him after work.

But he was in too good a mood to let the rain dampen his spirits. The file from Mycroft had pointed them to the right place and person, and there had been an arrest within the hour.  
After fishing through his pockets and finding no cab fare, Lestrade began the long walk home, determined to keep his mood light.

Before he had reached the end of the block, a familiar black car rolled up beside him. Lestrade stopped walking and turned to face the car window that powered down to reveal Mycroft.  
“If you’re here to kidnap me, I’d appreciate a lift home.” Lestrade said, half joking and half losing feeling in his toes.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, “I was actually going to ask how the case turned out.”

“Fantastic. Tell me in your warm dry car, if it’s no trouble.”

Mycroft just stared at him, his look calculating. After too long of this, Lestrade sighed, “Forget it,” and took a few steps down the sidewalk. Abruptly, the car flung open behind him, causing the DI to look back. Relieved, he jogged back toward the car and climbed into the seat beside Mycroft, muttering an apology for getting the seat wet.

The door was shut and Mycroft tapped the roof with his umbrella, signaling the driver to keep moving, which looked very Victorian to Lestrade. He half expected to hear the clop of hoofs as they drove.

“The case?” Mycroft prompted.

“Oh, yeah, thanks for that.” Lestrade smiled at him, “You’re much less bothersome to work with then your brother. Not that I don’t like his help,” He added quickly, remembering who he was talking to, “But sometimes the insults can be a bit... _much _for my team.”__

“He is quite external with his frustrations.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

The corner of Mycroft’s lips twitched. A thought that had been bothering Lestrade all day spilled out his mouth before he could stop it, “Why did you help, though?”

“Am I not allowed to help put dangerous persons behind bars?” 

“I’m not ungrateful. You’ve just never done that before.”

“Consider it a thank you for handling Baskerville so well.”

Lestrade shuttered, the memories of the hound still very real and very near the top of his mind. “Don’t mention it. At all. Ever again.”

This time Mycroft defiantly smirked. “Changing the subject then, you caught the culprit?”

“Oh you should have seen the look on his face...” 

They talked for a long time, Lestrade detailing the case and Mycroft asking all the right questions to keep him going. A part of Lestrade realized that they should have pulled up to his home a while ago. When he finally brought this up, Mycroft looked pointedly out of Lestrade’s window. Lestrade followed his gaze and found they were idling outside his flat.

He got out of the car and turned back to Mycroft. The rain had lessened into a drizzle, the clouds thinning somewhat. How long had he been in there?

“Thanks again,” Lestrade said, “For the file, and the lift.”

“My pleasure,” Mycroft replied, and he looked like he meant it.

“I’d say you could ask me if you ever need anything but, well,” he chuckled, “you do that anyway.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft frowned slightly, looking thoughtful, “If you ever feel ready to learn more about your wife, I can be of assistance.”

The door closed and the car pulled into traffic before the full weight of Mycroft’s words hit Lestrade. 

\--

“Are you alright, sir?”

The Yard was less high-strung than it had been the previous day. The lack of a complicated case made everyone a little more relaxed. Yarders lingered around the break room longer, laughter was heard more frequently, and the few cases that did trickle in were simple to solve compared to the madness of yesterday’s.

The exception to this light atmosphere was Lestrade’s office; more rather, Lestrade himself. The man was in the same clothes as yesterday, sported day-old stubble across his jaw, had bags under his eyes, and was staring into his empty cup of coffee as if it were a cloudy crystal ball.

He looked up at Sally Donovan’s voice, “Hmm?”

“I said, are you alright?”

“Oh, yeah, fine.” He yawned convincingly, “Just a row with the wife.”

Said row had spurred Lestrade to march out of their flat just as the thunderstorm began anew, his wife still yelling behind him. He had stomped down the street, paying no attention to the downpour, cursing Mycroft and his whole bloodline for shoving doubt into his marriage and forcing blissful ignorance out.

Sally smiled sympathetically, placing a fresh coffee cup at Lestrade’s elbow. 

“I may have said the wrong thing,” came a new voice.

Both Yarders looked up. For the second time in 24 hours, Mycroft stood in Lestrade’s office doorway.

The DI glared up at the man, slowly getting to his feet, “Sargent Donovan, would you mind leaving us so I may talk with Mr. Holmes privately?”

Sally recognized the tone and left quickly, closing the office door behind her.

Mycroft looked much like he had yesterday afternoon: expensive suit, umbrella in hand, neat haircut, closed off expression. Lestrade looked alike a homeless man in comparison.

Unaccustomed to a pissed off Lestrade, Mycroft attempted to continue, “After thinking over our exchange last night I-”

“Listen to me, you arsehole,” Lestrade interrupted, circling his desk and planting himself right in front of the taller man, “I get that you and your brother know things you shouldn’t and I’m almost positive one or both of you have a camera in my flat somewhere. But that does _not _mean you get to casually talk to me about my wife’s various affairs. I give you boys a lot, the very least you can give back is some privacy!”__

Mycroft shifted his grip on his umbrella and breathed in through his nose, “I came to apologize.”

Lestrade crossed his arms, “Really.” He asked flatly.

“Yes.”

“ _You _came here to apologize?”__

“As I had been about to say,” Mycroft said pointedly, “After thinking over our exchange last night I feel I may have been too indelicate with my offer.”

“You shouldn’t’ve offered anything in the first place,” Lestrade was not impressed. He had always held Mycroft to a higher standard than Sherlock, as the older man seemed more in control than his brother. But last night had reminded him that a Holmes was a Holmes, no matter his occupation. “If I want to know something about my wife, I’ll ask her.”

“I am aware of my... mistake,” Mycroft said the word ‘mistake’ slowly, as if someone were wrenching it from his throat. “And would like to make it up to you.”

Lestrade narrowed his eyes. Mycroft admitting to a mistake was big.

“How?”

“By asking you to dinner.”

And this was really big.

The DI froze, eyes perhaps a little wider than normal, staring at Mycroft, who looked almost bored with the exchange. Lestrade cleared his throat. 

“Dinner.”

“Yes.”

“With you.”

“That was my intent.” 

“You eat?”

“As much as it pains me to shatter whatever other worldly vision you have of me; yes, I do eat.”

“Sorry, just, Sherlock doesn’t really-”

“I am not my brother.”

“Right, no, of course not.” Lestrade’s arms now rested at his sides, very taken aback with the direction of the conversation. 

“Well?” Mycroft prompted, “Dinner?”

As much as he wanted to keep being angry with the elder Holmes, the anger was quickly being replaced by confusion. And if we were honest with himself, considering his living situation at the moment, he wasn’t entirely sure what we would be doing for dinner otherwise.

“Tonight.” He declared, trying to take back control of the situation.

“If you wish.”

“I do.”

“Very well,” Mycroft turned and opened the office door, “A car will meet you outside the Yard at 7. Try not to be late.” He looked back at Lestrade before he left, and seemed to scan him up and down. “Farewell, Detective Inspector.” And he shut the door, leaving Lestrade to ponder what just happened.

Sally came back in a few minutes later. “What did he want?”

“To buy me dinner...” Lestrade responded, still lost in thought. Sally looked at him, bewildered.

“Dinner?”

“Yeah...”

“And what did you say?”

Blinking rapidly, Lestrade matched Sally’s stare, “I said yes.”

“Well,” Sally said after a pause, “Enjoy your date, sir.” She turned to leave.

Lestrade scowled, “It’s not a date!”

Sally giggled, “I’ve seen that look on your face before. You’re trying to decide what to wear.” She left before he could refute that, closing the office door behind her.

Lestrade tried to convince himself she was wrong, even though his mind had indeed been going through all the clothes he had in his closet.


	2. Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of my gift. I'm sorry this is so late! Part three should be faster getting out and that is most likely the last bit. Have a great day! 
> 
> Oh, and I hope the bold and italics came out OK. Still not good at adding those in manually. Tips?

The restaurant was very much out of Lestrade’s price range. It was a place where they tell you what your 3-course meal will be instead of you ordering it. There was a glass of wine waiting for him when he arrived as well as about 20 utensils.

Lestrade felt underdressed immediately. He had opted to stay in his work clothes, as there hadn’t been enough time to go home and change. Out of place though he felt, Lestrade was slightly comforted by the fact that, even if he had been able to change clothes, he owned nothing that would fit this place anyway.

Mycroft was standing next to the table when Lestrade arrived. They were seated against the far wall, set apart from other diners.

“Glad you could come, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft said as the two sat down.

“I think we’ve reached the point where you can just call me Greg.” Lestrade said, looking around the elegant room, “This table must have cost a fortune; I think we’re past proper titles.”

Any surprise Mycroft felt barely flickered in his eyes before he raised his glass and sipped his wine. Mycroft was wearing a nicer suit than the one he had worn to the Yard that morning. His tie matched his eyes and the jacket looked pressed. Greg shifted uneasily, noticing of the first time the coffee and jam stains on the cuffs of his own jacket.

“If you are feeling self-conscious, don’t.” Greg looked up sharply. Mycroft was smiling. “If you can afford to eat at this place, no one cares what you wear. That man,” he pointed at a table in the corner, “usually arrives in socks, a night gown, and nothing else. He is only dressed tonight to impress his date.”

Greg watched the table out of the corner of his eye. There were two men seated there— one with shoulder length brown hair tied neatly behind him in a low pony tail. The other was bald and had dark stubble. Both wore expensive looking suits and shiny black shoes.

“Which one?” Greg asked. 

“The one with the mismatched socks.”

Greg looked again and saw the brunet had on one red sock and one purple.

Greg chuckled, “He really comes in naked?”

“Indeed.” Mycroft answered, with a chuckle of his own.

“So you come here often then?”

“Whenever possible. It’s a good way to learn who all the important people are. If someone hasn’t shown up in some time, it means they have lost enough to no longer matter to my line of work.” Greg frowned but he continued, “Of course tonight is not about that. If so, we would be seated in the middle of the room where we could observe without being obvious about it.”

The first course, soup, came. Greg was momentarily distracted by the panic of trying to figure out the correct spoon to use. Mycroft chuckled again.

“I’ve just explained that a man comes in here nude on a weekly basis and you’re worried about which spoon you are supposed to use?”

"Well dressing right is one thing,” Greg said, picking up a spoon at random, “But I wouldn’t want you to think I’m a complete imbecile who can’t eat soup right.”

“Choosing the right utensil is not sign of intelligence,” Mycroft picked up a different spoon from Greg, “However if you slurp at all I may think less of you.” He took a delicate sip of his own soup. Greg didn't beginning eating immediately, instead staring at Mycroft and contemplating his next move.

Mycroft finally looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. Greg held his gaze, lifted the spoon to his mouth, and slurped it up. Loudly and purposefully.

Mycroft started at him for a second, and then shook his head, “Such a waste.”

Greg burst out laughing. After a moment Mycroft joined him in nearly equal volume. Greg caught himself thinking that Mycroft had a nice laugh.

The conversation continued to flow easily, and Greg was surprised by how nice of an evening he was having. Of course, Greg reminded himself, yesterday in the car he had been having a nice chat with Mycroft and look how that ended.

_Although,_ thought Greg as Mycroft excused himself before dessert to use the toilet, _if something like that does happen again, I might be in for another of these dinners._

He checked his phone and found a text from Sally waiting for him:

**He better have treated you to better than take out.- SD ******

Greg grinned.

**I’ve counted 6 crystal chandeliers.- GL ******

**You’ll be a kept man at this rate.- SD ******

**Not a date.- GL ******

**Steal me a fork.- SD ******

Greg’s grin widened and he was about to reply when he heard someone clear their throat at the other end of the table. Greg looked up to find Mycroft standing next to his seat, one hand holding his phone and the other picking up his umbrella.

“I’m afraid we will have to cut this short.” He said, not looking at Greg but tapping on his phone instead. “Something has come up and they need me there in person.”

Greg observed Mycroft. The man looked much tenser than he had all meal. The person that had laughed at Greg slurping his soup was replaced by Mycroft Holmes, British Government. Greg sighed. The night had been going so well...

“That’s fine.” He forced on a smile he was sure Mycroft could see through, “We’re both men of our work. I understand.”

Mycroft looked as if he wanted to say something but he was interrupted by the waiter bringing dessert. Two plates of tiramisu were placed on the table and Mycroft’s gazed shifted to the confections.

Greg regarded the gaze and smirked in understanding. “Tell you what,” he stood up, aware of Mycroft watching his every move. He took each piece of dessert and wrapped them in a napkin. “Do you have any rules against eating in your cars?”

Mycroft shook his head slowly.

“Then we’ll continue this elsewhere.” Greg announced, closing the napkin and standing before Mycroft, “I assume your car is waiting outside?”

Mycroft cleared his throat before answering. “Of course,” His eyes left Greg’s and he started making his way toward the doors. Greg followed him, clutching the napkin carefully.

When they got into the back seat, Greg placed the napkin between them and unwrapped it to reveal the sweets. He picked up this own piece and took a bite. Mycroft mirrored the action after asking the driver to drop off the DI first.

"So," Greg asked after he had swallowed his first mouthful. It was perfect, as the rest of the meal had been. "What happened?"

"I cannot say."

"I thought as much."

"I will say that it is not dangerous. Just something I would prefer to handle in person."

"It's nothing to do with Sherlock, is it?"

"I would involve you if it was."

They finished their tiramisu and chatted lightly, Mycroft leading them off the subject of why dinner had to end early. The car stopped before too long and Greg got out. He froze, one hand on the open car door, staring at the building before him.

Slowly, he turned back to Mycroft, "This isn't my flat."

Mycroft looked out the door, "No, no it isn't." he agreed, "But you may stay here if you wish."

"What do you mean?"

"I had assumed you didn't want to return home to your wife just yet. Until things settle down, I thought you could stay here."

"And where is here?"

"One of our safe houses. It is yours as long as you need it."

Greg really wanted to ask who "our" referred to but figured he wouldn't get a straight answer. He looked back at the house. It wasn't very large, though it looked too fine to be just a safe house. They were on the outskirts of London, that much was certain, and the lawn around the safe house was well kept. There were no lights on, apart from the lamp beside the front door.

At the sound of keys, Greg turned around. Mycroft had his hand held out, a set of keys in his palm.

"I don't have anything with me."

"You'll find clothes ready for you as well as toiletries which should do until you can pick up your own things from home."

"What if you have another emergency and end up needing a safe house?"

"We can use one of our other secure locations."

"Why are you helping me?"

"Because I can."

List of logical reasons to walk away exhausted, Greg took the keys from Mycroft.

"And also," Mycroft said, reaching into his pocket, "Give this to Sargent Donovan." He pressed a fork into Greg's hands before closing the car door. The car took off down the road.

\--

The house had more rooms than it let on, though Greg couldn't get into all of them. A few on the lower floor were locked, including what must be the door to the basement. Upstairs there was a bedroom all made up; a set of bed clothes in his size lay on the bed and the washroom off the bedroom was stocked with shower supplies. A green tooth brush lay next to the sink.

As he gave himself a tour of the house, it occurred to him how strange it was that Mycroft had all this ready for him. Even the fridge was full of meals and snacks, as well as beer which he helped himself to. He threw himself onto the sofa in the next room and took a long draw from the bottle. There were so many questions surrounding this situation, Greg wasn't sure he could sleep. 

Was this just part of Mycroft apologizing? Did he have some ulterior motive for letting Greg stay here? Was Greg running from his problems by not going home tonight? 

Greg looked down at the fork in his hand and sighed. What would Sally say if she heard all this? What would his wife say? He shook his head and flipped on the television. There was no point in getting himself worked up about it all. He had made the choice to stay here, he would live with it.

After a few hours and a few beers, Greg determined it was time to sleep. Well, TRY to sleep. Hopefully his mind wouldn't spin more question he couldn't answer.

For the first time, he noticed a door across from his bedroom. Greg tried to open it but, not surprisingly, found it locked. It was easy to forget that he was, indeed, hiding out in a government safe house. The place felt so much like a home; comfortable furniture, soft bed, full kitchen. There were no photos on the wall or anything really personal like flowers or reminders stuck to the fridge, but it still felt lived-in rather than just a government building.

Leaving the locked door alone for now, Greg went to what was intended to be his bedroom and got ready for sleep. He set Sally's fork on the night stand, beside his mobile. A strange urge struck Greg as he stared at his phone. He hadn't exactly thanked Mycroft for letting him stay here. Sure he didn't know Mycroft's whole reason for doing this but Greg had a place to sleep that was free of tension so perhaps the man deserved a thank you.

Greg picked up his phone and tapped out a quick message:

**Thanks for this. ******

He paused, then shrugged and continued:

**Thanks for this. Hope the situation is being handled well. ******

Another pause. 

**Thanks for this. Hope the situation is being handled well. Good night. -GL ******

He hit send. That done, Greg set his phone down and turned off the light. Just as he rolled to his side, the phone buzzed. 

**You are welcome. Everything is fine. Good night, Gregory. -MH ******

Some small bit of worry that had been hiding in Greg since Mycroft drove off left him, and sleep came easier than expected.

\---

The next morning Greg woke up, got dressed into his clothes from last night, gathered the rest of his things, and made his way downstairs to the kitchen. He stopped in the entrance, staring at the person by the counter, trying to figure out if he was still sleeping.

Mycroft turned around, mug of coffee in one hand and newspaper in the other. "Good morning, Gregory. Coffee?"

Greg stared at him, mouth slightly open.

Mycroft smirked, "I assume you are surprised at my presence?"

Shaking his head slightly, Greg crossed the kitchen to grab a plain white mug for himself, "That's one word for it." He poured hot coffee into the mug and sat at the small table.

"Why are you here?" Greg finally asked after Mycroft had sat across from him. 

The other man didn't respond right away, sipping carefully from his cup. His blue eyes traced thoughtfully around the room before he looked back at Greg, almost sheepishly.

"This is my house."


End file.
